


it's written in the scars (they make us who we are)

by eliestarr



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliestarr/pseuds/eliestarr
Summary: His fingers press against Roxas’ jaw, scraping at something an inch or so below his ear. “What’s this scar from?”Roxas hums, and feels Vanitas curl closer to his chest, towards the sound like it’s a comfort. “Not sure.” He wasn’t even aware he had a mark there. “Can’t say I remember.”“What’s worse,” Vanitas says, his breath warm against the blond’s skin. The words sound jagged, his voice still raw, plagued by the things he’d seen in his dreams. “The scar with the lost story, or the lost boy with the scar?”Vanitas slumbers, and Roxas takes a moment to admire the scars of a hard-fought life.





	it's written in the scars (they make us who we are)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therasia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therasia/gifts).



> for teresa, who gave me a drabble prompt that i accidentally ran longer than a tweet with. oops? idk this is so soft i don't even know who i am.
> 
> title from _written in the scars_ by the script.

On nights where sleep is kind enough to claim Vanitas, Roxas watches over him.

He basks in the light of the moon outside, streaming pale and silver through the open curtains of their room, and he traces the lines across the slumbering boy’s skin with gentle, ghosting fingers.

Vanitas’ body is a graveyard of sins past, a patchwork of marks sewn together by the cruelest of hands. Some are splashes of white, stars bursting or shooting across his skin, while others remain puckered and an angry pink, even years later. Proof of his unmaking, written garishly across pale flesh in ugly cursive, from a hand he would never admit he still fears the touch of, in the dark of night—the haunt of an iron grip and molten eyes he still sees in his dreams.

Months have passed since their final stand in the desert, since seven lights stood tall against a tide of darkness under a bright, haunting moon.

Months, since the boy with whom he shares a face asked for his help in finding their missing piece. The vicious, volatile boy he’d met almost a year ago. Who he’d befriended, even though he was an insufferable asshole and had taken a liking to pressing Roxas’ face into the sands of the beach in Sora’s heart whenever they fought.

Months, he has spent helping mend the scars they cannot see, the ones deeply woven beneath the surface of his heart. In which darkness still coils, holding his broken pieces together when the lights that surround him cannot.

Although he has far fewer, Roxas is familiar with scars.

Even if the blows he’d suffered as a Nobody didn’t settle beneath his skin until his re-completion, he still has traces of his old life within the Organization branding him in more ways than he’d like. Shriveled flesh and painted white lines that are a testament to how reckless he’d been, with only a shadow of a heart beating in his chest.

There’s a thin line across his chest, the only proof Riku had landed a good hit during their fight in the dark city. He’s a halfway decent fighter, when he’s not being such a jerk.

There’s a splatter of white, so very close to his heart, where Xion had speared him with the tip of her Keyblade. She can’t become that monster anymore, and he’d stop long before pushing her that far when they spar, but the ghost of that final battle still lingers over them, sometimes.

There’s mottled skin along his rib-cage, tucked beneath his right arm, where he’d let his guard down for just a moment when facing Axel in that _stupid_ , cursed mansion basement. Where he’d felt a flicker of his past, memories blowing through him like a summer breeze, before his anger at being manipulated and lied to had washed over him, blocking out the pain of a burn.

And finally, there’s his most recent one, from the very person sleeping soundly next to him. A jagged line across his left knuckles, where the sharp, broken pieces of Void Gear’s blade had struck him badly. Disarmed him and knocked Oblivion from his gasp, before his attacker had tried to spear him with it.

Vanitas had been scared; a haunted scrap of a boy, freshly woken from the darkness he’d faded into. Nightmares clawing at his insides, years of poison pooling across his skin and seeping into his bones. Nightmares that still plague him most nights.

Tonight is no different.

He wakes with a scream tearing out of his throat, the force of his thrashing enough to tip over everything on his bedside table. He rolls out of bed and onto the floor, slamming his alarm clock against the wall so hard it cracks. Roxas knows from the look in his eyes what he’s feeling, a near feral glow to the honeyed gold. It thunders beneath his skin, a drumbeat or a pulse, a flash of panic that's white-hot and blinding.

_Destruction feels good, a hot rush to counteract the chill, something to wrap his hands around and choke—_

“Vanitas!”

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep, shuddering breath that shakes his shoulders, draws attention to the swath of collarbone his loose shirt exposes. “How real is this? Where we are?”

“Very real,” Roxas slides off the bed, quick to kneel beside him on the tile. He reaches over, careful to keep his hand in Vanitas’ line of sight, and slow enough not to startle him. He knows what it feels like to break the surface of an ocean of bad memories, the undertow strong enough to drag you back under at the first sign of struggle, or high tide of fear. He only needs an anchor to draw him back to shore.

The blond's scarred knuckles press against the callused skin on the inside of the other boy’s palm, where the ghost of a matching injury rests. A puckered line of pink, etched into his flesh by Oathkeeper. “Remember these?”

Vanitas chuckles, the sound low and dark, but he’s not gasping for air, which means the fog in his mind is clearing, returning him to the present. “I think a scar is the most romantic thing you’ve ever given me.”

“Shut up,” Roxas huffs, but there’s no bite to it.

Vanitas looks up, and his eyes are stars against the inky blackness of his hair, the pallor of his skin. The curl to his lips would look almost fond if it weren’t wrapped around a shit-eating smirk, but the rest of his face reads tired. As tired as Roxas feels. “Why are you still up?”

“I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep.” Roxas admits, and the gold narrows to slits.

“And what about you, idiot?” Vanitas snaps, and behind him, the lamp on the floor rolls slightly to one side, shifted by the shadows curling at his ankles. The darkness swirls and writhes, but thankfully doesn’t take the shape of an Unversed.

Roxas doesn’t really feel like dealing with one, tonight. It’s going to be difficult enough to get Vanitas back to bed without it being crowded by his rampant insecurities.

“Had a nap this afternoon,” the blond shrugs, and though they both know it’s a lie, neither are willing to speak the truth. Sleepless nights are common among the lights, all haunted by pasts they don’t dare revisit behind closed eyes.

Instead, Vanitas leans forward as Roxas takes a heavy breath, letting go of his hand to wrap his arms around the blond, bury his face in his neck. There’s the faintest tang of sulfur under the smell of sweat and Vanitas’ skin. A lingering sign of the darkness seeping back into his body, as though his fear had never shaken it loose.

His fingers press against Roxas’ jaw, scraping at something an inch or so below his ear. “What’s this scar from?”

Roxas hums, and feels Vanitas curl closer to his chest, towards the sound like it’s a comfort. “Not sure.” He wasn’t even aware he had a mark there. “Can’t say I remember.”

“What’s worse,” Vanitas says, his breath warm against the blond’s skin. The words sound jagged, his voice still raw, plagued by the things he’d seen in his dreams. “The scar with the lost story, or the lost boy with the scar?”

Roxas feels his insides twist, a vicious pull on his young heart. A loneliness echoes through his memories, of watching friends who couldn’t see or remember him laugh and play, of facing foes he’d once loved like family, of knowing he had no choice but to give up his life for a boy he didn’t even know.

He understands Vanitas better than most.

“You aren’t lost,” Roxas whispers, fingers tangling in black locks and loose cotton. His lips find the uneven dip in Vanitas’ right ear, a piece long since torn. “I found you.”

Vanitas exhales, and it sounds less pained. A weight lifted. “You aren’t, either.”

He draws back, and Roxas scarcely has time to feel the loss of heat before Vanitas’ mouth is on his in unspoken promise:  _We found each other._


End file.
